The Sand Trap
You’re gassing up at a Flying J just west of Rawlins, Wyoming, and the wind is having its way with you.The gusts come off the high plains at sixty miles an hour, shoving your truck door open, ripping it from your hand. Down the interstate you passed two semis on their sides, lying in the median like dead animals. Strange lattice fences line the highway; if you’re not from here you don’t know they’re snow fences. They’re losing. Truckers and old wise ones call this stretch the Snow Chi Minh Trail. They’re not joking.You squeeze the pump handle and watch the numbers climb. You do the math…
The skinny
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